


Time Does Not Stand Still

by TinkerBella



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-04
Updated: 2014-12-04
Packaged: 2018-02-28 02:39:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2715878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TinkerBella/pseuds/TinkerBella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a post ep 8 story.  What I wouldn't have mind seeing after D'Artagnan became a Musketeer.  And, of course, I just had to whump him a bit.  Also, sorry it's been so long.  I'm working on five stories at once.  Heh.  And one more, very important, thing.  THANK YOU for all the kudos on my stories.  You guys rock like a rocking thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time Does Not Stand Still

D'Artagnan shared in the celebration of his finally becoming a Musketeer. Porthos had insisted on it, Aramis had cajoled and Athos had simply smiled and inclined his head. So how could D'Artagnan refuse?

 

He had, however, begged off after a few glasses of wine, reminding the others that it had a been a long and eventful day and he did have to report to duty in the morning and he wished to make a good impression. So they had let him go, and he had walked away, unaware of the thoughtful and concerned gazes that followed him.

 

It felt strange to enter his barracks room, strange that home was now this place and not the small room in Constance's home. But she had sent him away, his heart broken into yet more pieces. As he had said to her, he had lost his Father and his family home, but now he had lost the woman who had made him feel whole again. 

 

Moving to sit on the narrow bed, D'Artagnan fingered the time piece that hung from his belt. It had belonged to his Grandfather, who had handed it down to his son, who had given to D'Artagnan on his eighteenth birthday. It had been one of his proudest moments when his Father had given him this piece. When he had hugged him and told him how proud he was of him. 

 

Blinking hard against the sudden onslaught of tears, D'Artagnan wished with all his heart that he could turn back time. If only he could go back to that day, just over a year ago, when his Father was still alive and he had his future to look forward too. Not that he could truly complain, D'Artagnan reminded himself. He had suffered great losses, but he had achieved one goal. From the time he'd be old enough to swing a toy sword, D'Artagnan had vowed to his Father that he would someday become a Musketeer. 

 

Rubbing trembling fingers over the time piece, D'Artagnan whispered, "I hope you are proud of me, Father. Today I am a Musketeer, and I vow to you that I will be the best Musketeer that I can be." 

 

Laying back to rest his head on his pillow, D'Artagnan closed his eyes and let a single tear slip away.

 

* * *

 

Athos leaned against a post as he watched D'Artagnan sparring with Porthos. Two weeks had passed since the boy had earned his commission and become a Musketeer and, in that time, the young Gascon had been focused upon training hard and asking questions and learning everything they had to offer him in the ways of swordplay, shooting and hand to hand. Athos knew he had also been spending time with Treville, picking the Captain's brain in all things strategic and tactical. D'Artagnan had been giving one hundred percent of his body, mind, and soul into becoming the best Musketeer that he could.

 

It pleased Athos for the most part, but at the same time he could not shake the feeling that something was wrong. For one thing, the boy tensed up whenever anyone mentioned Constance Bonnacieux's name, before abruptly changing the subject. And the few times Porthos or Aramis had asked if he'd sent word back home to his family about his commission, D'Artagnan had bitingly stated that there was no one to tell and would turn away to engage another Musketeer in swordplay. 

 

The sound of Porthos' laughter drew Athos out of his reverie and he smiled as he watched his big friend wrestle with D'Artagnan before the boy slipped his grip with the ease of a slippery eel. Only for Porthos to rush him, snagging D'Artagnan around waist and lifting him up and over his shoulder.

 

"Put me down you brute!" D'Artagnan demanded, although there was a touch of laughter in his voice.

 

"Get yourself down, if you can," Porthos challenged, only to bellow like an enraged bull when D'Artagnan pinched him hard on his backside, nearly dropping him before recovering and instead smacking a heavy hand down on the boy's behind. 

 

D'Artagnan yelped a protest before finding himself dumped into a pile of hay. He glowered at Porthos but took the other man's hand when offered, finding himself nearly flung across the compound as the big guy hauled him to his feet a bit too forcefully.

 

Clapping D'Artagnan on the shoulder to steady him, Porthos stated, "You need to get some meat on your bones. I think we're working you a bit too hard. Instead of building up you're wasting away."

 

"Not all of us need to be the size of a bear," D'Artagnan scoffed, as he brushed hay off himself.

 

"Speaking of food," Aramis smoothly interjected, pointing at the table where Serge had laid out a veritable feast for them.

 

D'Artagnan made a face as he let Porthos guide him over to the table, but his words were for Aramis,"We weren't talking about food."

 

Aramis assumed a puzzled expression. "Weren't we?" he drawled, before settling in to fill a plate which he handed to Porthos.

 

"Sometimes, Aramis, you are very strange," D'Artagnan commented, as he accepted a plate of his own.

 

"Aren't we all," Athos spoke up, moving to sit beside him, as Aramis set a plate in front of him. They fell into their usual banter, but Athos found himself focusing on D'Artagnan. He watched as the boy pushed the food around his plate more than he ate it. He wondered to himself how often that occurred, frowning when Aramis suddenly caught his gaze and nodded. Athos realized that his friend was letting him know that it was a common occurrence indeed. 

 

Porthos was also aware and much more blunt than the others. He tapped the edge of his knife to D'Artagnan's plate. "If you're going to keep up with the rest of us, you're going to need your strength. Eat up, D'Artagnan, otherwise you'll either float away on the wind, if I don't snap you in two before then, like the twig you are."

 

D'Artagnan scowled at Porthos for a moment, looking as if he would snap at the man, but instead he dropped his head to stare at his plate of food, almost as if it were an enemy, before he slowly started eating. 

 

The others went back to eating as well, Athos included, but he was both pleased and concerned when D'Artagnan cleaned his plate before excusing himself. The boy looked pale and as if he might hurl. "Is he going to be sick?" Athos queried.

 

Aramis shook his head. "He'll keep it down out of sheer stubbornness."

 

"How long has this been going on?" Athos demanded, feeling angry although it was directed at himself and not the boy. 

 

"He's never been a big eater," Aramis allowed. "When he first came to us he ate well enough, not a heavy eater like our Porthos, but well enough."

 

Athos found that rather hard to believe. "He's always been too thin."

 

Aramis nodded. "He's still little more than a boy. Eventually he'll fill out well enough, although I believe he'll always be lean and lithe."

 

"So why isn't he eating now?" Athos demanded, wanting answers now that he knew there was a reason to be concerned.

 

"That's a good question it is," Porthos countered, looking as worried as Athos felt. "I know D'Artagnan is pleased to finally be one of us, but he's not been himself since he got commissioned. It's almost like all the life got sucked out of him that day. He always seems so sad and tired." 

 

Shoving his own plate aside, still half full, Athos rose to his feet. "I'm going to talk to him."

 

Aramis looked stunned. "You are?"

 

"Shouldn't I?" Suddenly Athos felt uncertain.

 

"Of course you should," Aramis was quick to reassure him. "It's just...well..." he paused as if at a loss for words.

 

Porthos, on the other hand, spoke right up. "You're not usually one for talking is all," he stated, looking as surprised as Aramis did.

 

Which was a most excellent point, Athos had to concede. Talking was not his strong suit, so maybe it would be best to send Aramis. He was never at a loss for words, usually. He looked at his friend and said, "Then you should go and talk to him."

 

"I think D'Artagnan would be more inclined to talk to you," Aramis countered, looking bemused. "He thinks the world of you and your opinion would carry more weight."

 

"Rubbish," Athos drawled, making Porthos laugh out loud at him. But, in truth, he knew the boy did see him as a mentor of sorts, although Athos had yet to figure out why. He was moody and cynical and preferred to be left alone most of the time. Porthos and Aramis knew and respected his boundaries and, for some unearthly reason, considered him friend material. Despite himself, Athos had formed a bond of brotherhood with them - as equals. He knew they all felt that same bond with D'Artagnan, although more as big brothers keeping watch over a younger brother. Aramis and Porthos could look out for themselves, but Athos felt this unerring need to protect D'Artagnan and he knew his friends felt the same way.

 

Porthos stood up and draped an arm over Athos' shoulder as he guided him toward Garrison exit. "I believe young D'Artagnan went for a walk, if you leave now you may be able to catch up with him."

 

Athos shrugged the heavy arm off his shoulder, heaving a sigh of resignation. "I don't even know where to begin to look for him," he confessed. "Nor what to say, should I find him."

 

"You'll figure it out," Porthos stated, agreeably. "You always do." With a none to gentle shove, he sent Athos on his way.

 

* * *

 

When D'Artagnan left the Garrison, he found himself wandering the streets of Paris until he reached the outskirts and he kept going. He felt unsettled in both mind and body, fighting the urge to purge his dinner simply because he wouldn't give the others the satisfaction even though he knew he needed to eat better for his own sake. Food used to be a simple pleasure, but of late it tasted like ash on his tongue.

 

As he walked, D'Artagnan realized he clutched his Father's timepiece in one hand, letting it ground him. However, it also made him feel sad and weighed down by grief. It was the reminder that he had lost everything. He had no family, no home, no sense of belonging. 

 

Stumbling over a rut in the ground, D'Artagnan realized he had walked off the path and into a field. He continued on to a nearby tree and sat beneath it's heavy boughs, feeling suddenly weary and worn. Sleep had been his enemy of late as well, his dreams turning into nightmares that haunted him at times even during the day.

 

Letting his eyes drift closed, D'Artagnan slipped into an uneasy slumber, only to be rudely awakened by two pairs of rough hands yanking him to his feet. Feeling groggy, D'Artagnan struggled to awareness, finding himself held fast between two men. 

 

They were not alone. Another man yanked free D'Artagnan's sword before stepping forward and gripping his face with rough fingers. "What's your name, boy?" he demanded.

 

"None of your concern," D'Artagnan shot back, yanking his head free. He was expecting the punch that swung his way and twisted his body so that it grazed his ribs instead. At the same time he stomped on the foot of the man holding him on his left, thereby freeing that arm which he swung hard to club the man holding his right arm smack in the nose. Now D'Artagnan was totally free, just in time to jump back out of reach of the stab of his own sword.

 

Moving on instinct, D'Artagnan moved fast and fluid, keeping one step ahead of the man wielding his sword. And all was going well until the man he had stepped on joined in. A hit to the back of his head made D'Artagnan stumble, but he caught himself in time to kick the man hard in the groin, just as Porthos had taught him. However, before he could whirl back around to face his armed attacker, D'Artagnan felt the hot slice of steel across his ribcage and it brought him to his knees.

 

The man he punched in the nose was on him, hauling D'Artagnan upright with an arm around his neck and leaving him bared to the swordsman. Between the pain in his head and the fire in his ribs, D'Artagnan felt dizzy and weak and he knew he was about to die.

 

Only instead of a death blow, there was the sound of a pistol shot and the man holding D'Artagnan's sword faltered a step before toppling over - dead. 

 

"Release him or die," a familiar voice ordered, of the man who held D'Artagnan captive.

 

D'Artagnan blinked hard and Athos' stern visage came into view. He was perched on horseback and flanked by Porthos and Aramis. Relief washed over him, leaving him feeling weak, so when he found himself suddenly released, D'Artagnan stumbled and fell to his knees. He didn't see Porthos and Athos dealing with the two remaining attackers, he was too busy trying to stay conscious.

 

Aramis was by D'Artagnan's side in an instant, hands roving over the boy and finding his injuries. "I need bandages!" he shouted to Porthos.

 

"How is he?" Athos asked, as he moved to kneel beside them, reaching out to support D'Artagnan as the boy started to topple over. 

 

"He...is fine," D'Artagnan mumbled, managing to focus on Athos. "How...how did you find me?" He was grateful for the rescue, but surprised as well.

 

Athos shrugged. "I went looking for you but you managed to elude me until I came across a vendor who saw you leave to the south. I went back to mount up to find you and Porthos and Aramis decided to come with me. You were gone a long time." Athos didn't mean to make it sound like an accusation, but he couldn't help himself. It was nearly dark and they had been searching for two hours and he had found himself becoming almost overwhelmed by fear. As it were, his fears had been justified and he intended to scold D'Artagnan most thoroughly, at a later time, for going off on his own and making them all worry.

 

D'Artagnan winced as Porthos returned with the bandages and Aramis pressed a wad to his side. "Forgive me for being so much trouble," he mumbled, giving in to the urge to close his eyes again. He was so damn tired.

 

"We need to get him back so I can stitch him up," Aramis declared, taking a long strip of bandage and wrapping it to hold the other bandage in place.

 

"He can ride with me," Athos declared, once they had D'Artagnan back on his feet.

 

Which irritated D'Artagnan and he pulled away from the hands supporting him. "I can walk back," he stated, putting action to words and leaving the trio in his dust. His head ached, his side throbbed like fire, but damned if he couldn't make his way back on his own. 

 

Athos watched the boy go, impressed with his stubbornness but knowing, by the way D'Artagnan started weaving, he wouldn't last long. But he gestured for his friends to mount up and they followed the young Musketeer for over a mile before he silently crumpled to the ground.

 

* * *

 

Feeling the warm slickness of his Father's blood on his hands, D'Artagnan screamed his anger at the heaven's above, rising to his feet to avenge his Father's death only to be stopped by strong hands holding him down. He fought against them, ignoring the pain that throbbed in his head and the fiery ache in his side that left him gasping for breath.

 

"Easy, D'Artagnan. It's just me," a soft voice beseeched him. "It's Porthos."

 

"P'thos," D'Artagnan mumbled, going still as he forced his heavy eyelids to open. He blinked hard and realized he was in his room at that Garrison, lying on his bed and surrounding by three worried Musketeers. Panic fluttered through D'Artagnan for a moment, because the last thing he remembered was making his way back here from the outskirts, he didn't remember actually arriving.

 

Porthos took pity on him. "You made it about a mile before passing out and we brought you back. You've been in and out of it for half a day, but Aramis says you're going to be fine."

 

Nudging Porthos aside, Aramis took his place so he could study his patient, lifting the blanket to check on the bandages that circled D'Artagnan's ribs. "You didn't tear the stitches," he said, with satisfaction. "But you need to rest. Despite your hard head you've got a concussion, and you have a slight infection but I've got the fever under control. That said, you need to eat something, so Porthos and I will fetch us all some dinner while you and Athos talk."

 

"Talk?" Athos echoed, from the place at the end of the bed where he'd been keeping vigil over the boy.

 

"Talk," Aramis repeated, firmly. "After all D'Artagnan is a captive audience, for the time being." He smiled as he rose to his feet and ushered Athos into the now, empty, chair.

 

Porthos was chuckling as he and Aramis left the room, firmly closing the door behind them.

 

Athos sat in the chair, both hands scrubbing through his hair as he searched his mind for the right words to say to convey what he was feeling. The problem being that he didn't do well with either words or feelings in general. But he wanted to at least try, for D'Artagnan's sake, because the boy lying before him showed such promise for greatness and because he had, somehow, lodged his way deep in Athos' heart.

 

Only D'Artagnan beat him to it, as he shifted until he was sitting up. "I'm sorry," he whispered, trying to make up to Athos for his, obvious, failings. The Musketeer had taken him under his wing and helped to guide him to his goal of a commission, and in return D'Artagnan had gotten himself in trouble, making a plebian mistake. "I should have been more aware of my surroundings at all times, as you've taught me. It won't happen again."

 

"Is that what you think this is about?" Athos countered, unable to hide his surprise. "You believe Porthos and Aramis left us alone so I could...scold you?"

 

"I assume...scold...is putting it mildly," D'Artagnan allowed, feeling fuzzy with confusion yet again. His head did ache, throbbing in time with his heartbeat, so maybe he had missed something even though he was now awake and should have been aware.

 

Athos jumped out of the chair with such force it tumbled over, so he kicked it aside as he began to pace up and down the length of the bed. "D'Artagnan...this has nothing to do with any failings on your part, although, I do hope nothing like what happened today happens again. You could have died." He stopped pacing and held up a hand to cut the young man off when he would have replied. "That said, I wish to discuss..." At that Athos broke off, uncertain how to continue. He retrieved the chair, set it up by the bed and sat down again, seeing the confusion on D'Artagnan's pale face. Seeing, clearly, how young the Gascon was, and how much pain he was in. Pain that was not physical. Pain that darkened amber eyes almost to black. The kind of pain that twisted deep in your gut. Pain that Athos was all too familiar with.

 

A long moment of silence passed between them, while Athos ruminated and D'Artagnan's long fingers picked at the frays in the blanket. Eventually Athos realized that D'Artagnan's gaze kept flitting to his gear that lay on the trunk at the end of the bed. "Do you need something?"

 

D'Artagnan looked up, looked hopeful, but then he shook his head. "No...nothing."

 

Athos did not believe him. Rising he grabbed the gear and dropped it into D'Artagnan's lap. He watched the boy reach for the time piece he always had with him. Once the gold fob was cradled in his hand, D'Artagnan visibly relaxed into the pillows. "Is that from your Father?" Athos queried, as he slumped into the chair once more.

 

D'Artagnan didn't look at Athos, but he nodded. "Handed down from his father before him. He gave it to me when I turned eighteen."

 

"Do you know, I do not believe you have ever informed us of your birthdate," Athos countered, filled with a sudden curiosity. He knew that D'Artagnan was young, but he had never given thought to his actual age.

 

"I turn twenty in a few months," D'Artagnan said softly.

 

Which stunned Athos into momentary silence. He hadn't allowed himself to believe the boy was quite that young. Finding his voice he stated, "Well then, that gives you the honor of being the youngest Musketeer ever commissioned."

 

D'Artagnan did look up at that, a half smile on his lips. "I know. Captain Treville informed me of that fact the day after I got commissioned."

 

"I see." Which answered Athos other question, whether or not Treville knew how young D'Artagnan really was. Not that it mattered in the least, for the Gascon had earned his place amongst them. What mattered now was his current state of mind and being. Leaning forward in the chair, hands clasped together, eyes locked on the boy's face, Athos decided it was time to be blunt. "What troubles you, D'Artagnan? Ever since you became a Musketeer, you seem...unhappy." It wasn't quite the word he wanted, but it would do.

 

"I'm very happy to be a Musketeer," D'Artagnan countered, looking dismayed by Athos' words. "Happy and honored and...grateful. Forgive me if I seem lacking in that regard. It means everything to me."

 

Athos believed him, but he also knew there was something eating away at the boy. "And yet something is wrong. I've been told you haven't been eating well and I've seen for myself how tired you seem. What haunts you?" For Athos knew that demons most certainly were haunting the young Gascon, he just couldn't imagine why.

 

For a moment D'Artagnan was silent, head bent as he contemplated the time piece curled in his hand. He heaved a sigh, weighted down with sadness, then began to speak. "Have you ever wished that you could stop time, reverse it, then make it stand still?"

 

"I have," Athos replied, without hesitation. If he could he would stop time and reverse all the way back before his wife murdered his brother. He would happily trade his own life if he could only make that happen.

 

"My Father always seemed to understand me better than I understood myself," D'Artagnan continued, shifting restelessly against the pillows even as he closed his fingers over the time piece and held on tight. "When I was feeling overwhelmed, or scared or angry with myself. Whenever I despaired of having failed him, he would make me walk with him to this one tree I used to climb as a boy, and we would sit and he would simply wait for me to confess those fears, whatever they may be." Pausing to inhale a shuddery breath, D'Artagnan exhaled slowly and whispered, "I miss him."

 

It struck Athos then, just how young D'Artagnan was. How alone in the world he was now with his Father and his family home gone. For himself, Athos preferred being a loner. He knew that Aramis and Porthos would always be there for him, and that D'Artagnan had become one of his brothers in arms. But the boy was feeling the loss of his Father and Athos hadn't considered that to be a factor because D'Artagnan had held it together so well. He was young, but he was strong. Only now time, in a sense, had stopped for him long enough for the reality of his losses to hit him and he was being crushed under the weight of it all.

 

Athos wasn't sure what to do to help him. He was stuck in time himself, unable to move forward and forget the past, rather he wallowed in the memories, his only attempt to deal with them was to drown himself in wine. It never worked beyond a moment or two. Athos had told D'Artagnan that they were more alike than he knew, and that truth was never clearer than in this moment. 

 

"Do you trust me, D'Artagnan?" Athos queried, reaching out to close a hand over the boy's fist, thereby drawing his attention to him fully.

 

"Of course I do," D'Artagnan replied, without hesitation, his eyes shining with uncertainty in the face of what seemed to be such an odd question.

 

Athos was pleased, but kept his expression neutral. This was not about him. His focus now was on helping D'Artagnan. "Good," he stated, squeezing the boy's hand and feeling a bit of the tension that had been vibrating throughout the slim body, ease. "Then I would be honored if you would consider coming to me when you are feeling overwhelmed or uncertain. I know I'm not your Father, D'Artagnan, but I am your friend. And, even though we cannot truly stop time and we most certainly cannot reverse it, perhaps we can take hold of it and make it stand still for a bit while we figure out the chaos in our hearts and minds."

 

D'Artagnan looked like he was torn between laughter and tears, but it was a soft chuckle that escaped before he stated, "I do believe that is the longest speech I've ever heard you speak."

 

"Ungrateful whelp," Athos countered, although he could not hide the slight grin that curved his lips even as relief washed over him. D'Artagnan was already smiling through his tears. The boy was stronger than he gave himself credit for. Stronger than Athos could ever hope to be. "I meant it. Maybe we could figure some things out together."

 

"I would like that," D'Artagnan confessed, only to find his words cut off by a huge yawn.

 

Athos was on his feet instantly. "You're still healing and you need to rest. We can talk more later." 

 

D'Artagnan scooched down the pillows, moving carefully to curl up on his good side. "Maybe," he mumbled, perhaps his way of letting Athos off the hook for now. His eyes drifted close, but he blinked them open long enough to catch Athos' eye and whisper, "My thanks."

 

"Sleep," Athos beseeched him, quietly stepping away to sit at the small table in the corner as he waited for the others to return.

 

* * *

 

D'Artagnan dreamed, but he found himself able to break away from the memories that haunted him, this time hearing Athos' voice in his head and letting it guide him to consciousness. 

 

He was alone in his room, but he didn't feel lonely. He remembered waking up to the sound of laughter, his friends at his table, sharing a meal. Aramis had been quick to check on him, beseeching him to sit up and eat a bit, and D'Artagnan had done so, wanting to please him.

 

After they had played cards, with D'Artagnan out cheating Porthos and winning the meager pot. Aramis had given D'Artagnan an elixir to help with his pain and slight fever, which had sent him back to sleep. But now he felt more awake and aware and focused than he had for the past two weeks.

 

Rising from the bed, D'Artagnan was pleased to realize that his head only ached a little and, if he moved carefully, his side merely twinged. He took care of nature, washed up, got dressed and headed down to the courtyard.

 

He found the others scattered about the compound. Porthos was sparring, Aramis was cleaning his harquebus and Athos was seated at the table, hat tipped over his face, observing all that was going on around him. He shifted when D'Artagnan moved to sit beside him, but remained silent. 

 

It was Aramis who came over to ask how D'Artagnan was feeling. "Any pain?"

 

"Nothing much," D'Argagnan replied. "I'm a bit tired, but I'm fine. Really."

 

"No physical activity," Aramis ordered. "You can sit in the sun for a bit, but then it's back to bed for you."

 

D'Artagnan could feel the pout the curved his mouth. "Could I take a walk first? A short one."

 

Athos stirred at that, hat sliding back on his head, catching on to what D'Artagnan was saying. "I could walk with him," he offered. "Make certain he doesn't go too far."

 

"Make it a very short walk," Aramis stated. "If you over do it and tear my stitches I'm going to be very upset."

 

"I won't over do it," D'Artagnan promised, carefully rising to his feet. He headed for the exit, feeling Athos fall into step beside him. It wasn't until they were outside the Garrison gate that he spoke. "How long does it take to heal a broken heart?"

 

Athos heaved a sigh. "I wish I could answer that."

 

D'Artagnan nodded. "Me too." He curled his fingers around his Father's time piece and found himself smiling. As much as he wished Athos could give him that answer, D'Artagnan realized it was enough just knowing he no longer felt so alone. "My father used to say that time heals all wounds."

 

"I wish I could have met him," Athos countered. 

 

"Me too," D'Artagnan allowed. "I think he would have liked you."

 

Athos lightly nudged D'Artagnan's shoulder. "What's not to like?" he dead-panned.

 

D'Artagnan snorted, but swallowed any further laughter when he felt his stitches pull. He did not want to risk the wrath of Aramis. But he found himself smiling as they walked along and, for the first time since his father's death, D'Artagnan felt ready to let go of the past. It was time to move forward and embrace his future, as a Musketeer.

 

THE END


End file.
